


Never Let You Go

by missmoriarty



Series: Never Let You Go [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Smutty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 22:01:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1404028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmoriarty/pseuds/missmoriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on Never Let Me Go.</p>
<p>Sherlock is a donor on his fourth donation, and for his time at St Barts, he has befriended the hospital's best doctor - John Watson. Although their time together is nearing, there are some secrets and stories left to be told in the peaceful square of the hospital.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first chapter - I promise the tags will make sense as the story goes along! I hope I don't mislead anyone.
> 
> This idea has been in my mind for some time and I finally thought I'd put it down on paper. It is based on Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro and I really suggest that it should be read. Sherlock is a donor, ie he donates his organs, and in the later parts it'll be explained why they are used. I'd spoil it if I explain the whole thing in the beginning :')
> 
> Introduction/chapter is slightly short, I just needed to have an introduction to the story to set it out for me, mainly. 
> 
> (I'll so try and write more but I'm in the exam season)
> 
> Enjoy.

Days at St Barts went by like seconds.

If he stayed quiet enough, Sherlock could hear the ticking clocks in his head, counting down the last seconds and minutes and hours that he had left of his life. He was at his last possible donation, his fourth to be exact, and he knew he would not survive for long. His doctor, the good doctor, also knew and yet they held on to that hope that he would have a few extra seconds to enjoy in their company.  
Sherlock had seen many donators complete in his time as a career, has seen so much suffering and yet he did not have the will to fight. Perhaps he has waited far too long before finding the courage to speak, to share and tell, and to let others know of his experience as a donor. Now that it was too late, he was never too sure who would want to hear a dead man’s story, and yet his doubt was soon answered just two days after his regret had risen.  
They were both seating outside on the hard, cold benches just in the square of St Barts, where doctors were walking freely and donors meandering, a slight limp in their pace. John had time off, since he had no other donations to take care of that, and gladly – at least for Sherlock – he decided to spend time with the donor. They had been silent before John had spoken up, staring forward and thinking about how quick their time together would end. Sherlock was stuck in his musing, of days back at his old school where he was a naïve yet disillusioned child, and at the cottage where he had been faced with the cold hard truth of what he and his peers were there for.

“You never told me how it all began.”

The statement took Sherlock by surprise, as he hadn’t expected to hear John’s clear and firm voice ring through the almost empty square and echo softly. Sherlock frowned and looked down at his friend, unsure for a moment, before smiling slowly.

“I never thought you’d be interested, John. Or rather, I never expected you’d want to hear.” He replied, dragging his eyes to watch a cherry blossom petal fall in front of them. He heaved a sigh when the wind blew it away. “Most people would be repulsed. They wouldn’t want to hear our story.” He added after the pause, not glancing down at John.

John didn’t reply for a long time, his expression unreadable, even for Sherlock. The dark haired man had finally found the courage to look down and watch his companion, trying to search his face for any kind of emotions or hints as to what his opinion to Sherlock’s words were. Sherlock couldn’t help himself but worry because he never wanted John to feel repulsed. His only friend and companion at St Barts. He waited and listened to his mental clock, his fingers pulling and picking at his trousers. It felt like hours, but he later worked it out that it had only been five minutes.

“Why would I be repulsed? I’ve seen enough to last me a lifetime, Sherlock, but I would never be repulsed.” The doctor finally said, shaking his head. Sherlock could have sworn he saw a look of disappointment on the young man’s face, but he was never too sure; he didn’t want to be sure of it.

They stayed silent some more. Uncomfortable, or rather, afraid of saying anything to John’s answer, Sherlock stared ahead. He watched a donor – she couldn’t have been older than twenty – slowly and heavily make her way towards the entrance of the hospital. Halfway in her effort, she fell, and almost scrambled messily on the floor. Sherlock winced and licked his lips, knowing he wouldn’t be strong enough to help her, and yet nobody else seemed to want to touch her either. After only a split second, John stood and walked confidently and yet hurriedly towards her, helping the woman up. When he was done – having taken her deep inside the corridor and most likely towards the reception – John returned and sat down by Sherlock’s side once more.

“I want to hear. All of it. From the beginning, Sherlock.” John said, looking up at him with a raised eyebrow. He seemed honest, his facial expression open and his eyes twinkling with curiosity and something softer, intimate; Sherlock soon decided that it was pity. Of course. The donor turned his gaze away and looked straight ahead once more, finding that they were alone in the square. The donor wasn’t too sure whether he would be willing to share his story, everything that happened to him and to his peers before he arrived in St Barts. However, he was quite sure he could trust John. John. If he couldn’t trust him, who else would he trust?

The detective took a deep breath and gave a nod, turning his gaze back down on John after a moment of hesitation.

“I’ll tell you. It will take some time –“ He warned, raising an eyebrow back at the doctor. They both knew that although Sherlock’s existence was timeless now, John’s wasn’t. He, of course, had a life of his own whereas Sherlock’s life never started. 

John smiled and shook his head, looking back at Sherlock with amusement and kindness in his blue, light eyes. “We have time. I made time for us. They gave me leave, for at least four months for …” John didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to; they both knew why. Although it was uncommon for doctors to take time off work, since they were quite important to donors and others alike, John was different. 

Sherlock smiled, too, looking pleased. He visibly relaxed, his shoulders slumping, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. He hadn’t realised how tense he had been the whole time.

“Good. Then we won’t be disturbed.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of Sherlock's tale back at the school before the Cottage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm awful at Chapter summaries.   
> This is dedicated to Dev because she's lovely and extremely beautiful.
> 
> I forgot the exact way the book called gays/lesbinas and Google/gradesavers were not extremely helpful so I tried my best. Another note is a trigger warning to bullying.
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy this chapter too!

Just after the end of lunch, the little meadow deep hidden in the forest surrounding Baker Street Grammar School was always much quieter and mainly always empty. Of course, most of the children attending the Grammar School would have been in their class, learning and enjoying themselves. The classes were always quite enjoyable, even Sherlock could agree, but the young boy did not find himself interested in the class he was meant to be attending.

The meadow offered some peace and quiet for when his head was hurting; when it felt like he couldn’t concentrate with its pounding noise and ticking clock. Just one glance around the clearing made his tense shoulders slump and he soon found himself relaxing against the tree that he had managed to climb. He, along with the other children, were always told not to climb trees and not to run too fast; while most of the children did listen to the rules, there were no adults to supervise him. He yawned and stretched, looking around again as he heard a soft rustling in the underground.

He watched as a rabbit shot out from the bushes surrounding the meadow. Beyond the bushes, there was a tall fence that was made from strong steel. Sherlock had checked and decided that the fence was unbreakable and difficult to climb. He had even tried to work out whether jumping from a branch over the gate would work but it seemed too tall for even an adult to manage. The rabbit hopped forward and sniffled at the air. Although there hadn’t been any glimpses of foxes around, just as quick as the rabbit appeared, a fox jumped from the underground.

The rabbit, of course, had no chance of escaping the fox. Its neck was bitten into and after a few seconds of struggling – ten, Sherlock had worked out – it went limp and still in the strong fox’s jaw. The young boy made no move to get up and instead studied the predator, his eyes widened with interest. In the time he had spent in the meadow, he never once saw a fox, and the wild animal gained the boy’s interest quite easily.

After the fox disappeared into the underground, Sherlock decided it was time to make his way back. His class would be art; he knew he always missed it out and he was very sure that Mrs Hudson wouldn’t be extremely happy with that. Nor would Molly; the young girl always seemed to care about Sherlock’s whereabouts and his ability to draw well.

Sherlock couldn’t describe himself as extremely artistic. The only artistic gift the young boy had was playing an instrument, which Molly bought for him from the Sales. The violin was quite precious to the young boy and it was well hidden in his room; he didn’t want anyone to have anything to do with his present. Due to the fact that the young boy was hardly able to draw, he always missed out going to lessons. He never really saw the need to be in a classroom surrounded by talented students; in his class, most of the children’s work had been chosen to go into the Gallery. 

If he had to admit, he would say that he felt humiliated. In the beginning, he had tried really hard to draw like the others and to get his work submitted into the Gallery. The only work that had been chosen of his was one of the meadow and the children playing; ever since then, he hadn’t been chosen again. He thought it was hardly fair, he thought his work had improved since then yet the guardian in charge of the Gallery did not seem to agree. The woman was surrounded by mystery; the children were not even aware of her name. She only came once every two months just before Exchange to pick out the best pieces that the students had made; even though the true reason for this hadn’t been offered by the guardians, the children had their own theory.

Sherlock remembered back to Molly’s quite innocent theory. It was back in the Junior years when the first Exchange happened. Just after Sherlock bought a piece of art from her, the girl had pulled him to the side and whispered her theory in a hushed and hurried voice, her eyes darting around them.

“Sherlock – don’t you think it’s weird? That – the – the woman, she always takes our best work.” She had said, looking at him with wide eyes. The boy had to agree; it was quite bizarre that the best work among the students were taken away. It had never been a problem in the Infant years but Sherlock guessed it was because their work was not that good. Surely random fingerprints and lines did not deserve to be entered in the gallery.

After receiving a nod from the young boy, Molly continued to speak, her eyes sparkling as if she had found an answer to something important. “I know why! It’s because the woman who visits us, she wants it for her own gallery. For her home. Because she’s proud of us!” She explained, gleaming proudly at having found the answer.

Sherlock couldn’t recall what he had said to her afterwards. It could have been something along the lines that the theory was ridiculous since the woman obviously did not like the children. She had never even spoken to them and she was always making sure she never ended up in the same place as them; likewise, since the children were rather frightened, they made sure they never ended up in the same room as them.

One of the children in Sherlock’s dorm decided he definitely knew the answer to the puzzle surrounding the woman and the children. Even the boy’s statement was arrogant; as arrogant as he was which was why Sherlock immensely detested the man. 

Phillip, or rather commonly called Anderson, had loudly announced that the woman was only taking their things because she wanted to show them to someone. Who that someone was, Anderson could not answer; yet, after years of thinking and in the last days of Sherlock’s life, he had found that Anderson was right. The woman did not take the items for her own greed but rather as proof. The idea that Anderson could be right made Sherlock shudder with disgust.

He stopped in front of the huge building which acted not just as their school but also as their home. One side of the building was for girls; the other side was for boys, while the middle part of the building was where the classrooms laid. Sherlock could just skip going back to class and instead go to his room. Mrs Hudson never told him off too much and plus, Sherlock saw no point into the going back to being humiliated.

Just as he was about to enter the building and turn to his right, he was stopped by loud boys calling his name. The young boy froze and winced, before turning around to face the crowd. He watched as the boys he had worked out were from his football class made their way towards him and he bristled only slightly, before his shoulders slumped and he gave a disinterested grunt in greeting.

“Look who is here.” The tallest boy sneered, leaning heavily against the wall, his head tilted as he obstructed Sherlock from getting away if he wished. The young boy said nothing and just stared at the blue shirt that he was wearing, trying to behave as if he was not there, but back in his room playing the violin.

“Sherly, where did you come from? Shagging Phil in the meadow again?” One of the boys behind them mocked, his voice laced with amusement and a hint of disgust.  
At that, Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. “Why, you want to watch, Dave?” He shot back, narrowing his eyes as the group erupted into laughter and sneering.  
“Someone’s feeling brave, huh?” The tall boy spoke again, leaning closer to look into Sherlock’s eyes, watching as the boy almost shrunk back against the wall in fear. “Why would we watch, Sherl? You know we don’t do things like that. Going under the umbrella.” 

Sherlock was about to snap something back, his eyes wide with fear although his mouth was twisted in distaste. The tall boy allowed him no chance to reply and pushed him against the wall with a heavy but quick thud, making Sherlock groan in pain. Sherlock prepared himself, ready to curl in pain at the hits that he knew would be coming.

Yet, they didn’t happen, and the group of boys scurried away when a door creaked open. Sherlock just managed to open his eyes and caught glance of an older Senior walking towards them, calm and collected. The boy straightened up and coughed, looking slightly ashamed of himself.

“I should teach you how to fight, brother mine. Perhaps you should start fencing.” The older Senior said, his eyes narrowing as he looked towards where the boys had disappeared to. “Who are they? Full names, please. It would be helpful.”

“Mycroft, leave them. You’ll only make it worse.” Sherlock snapped and turned in the direct of the boy’s dorms. “And I don’t need to fight.” He added, sounding annoyed. He left his brother alone in the wide corridor without saying much else, hurrying towards his bedroom. He was aware that the boys wouldn’t bother him that night. Just before he entered his room, he could hear Mycroft sigh and turn to leave back into his office.

As soon as he was back into his room that he shared with two other boys, he made his way to the closet where he had his box full of possessions. He gently took out the violin and checked the time, deciding he could play in peace for at least another half an hour.

He sat down on the bed and closed his eyes, pausing as he recalled the melody he always played for Mrs Hudson and Mycroft, before beginning the song slowly, humming to himself. He thought back to the meadow and tried to get the image of the rabbit in the fox’s jaw, filling his head with images that he had seen of the outside world, trying to distract himself. 

When he heard creaking noises just outside of his room, his eyes snapped open and he looked across with worry. Outside his unlocked door, the woman was watching him, standing quite a few feet from the opened entrance. Her black eyes were wide and she looked almost frightened, but curious too, making absolutely no noise. As soon as their eyes met, the woman turned sharply and walked away. Sherlock could hear the clicking noise of her heels weeks after their first meeting, the sound taking other the tick-toing noise of his mental clock.


End file.
